Cruel Sanctuary (Wages of Sin Book 1)

by Tara Leigh

  Granville was only too happy to hand over responsibility for her safety.

  I told him to bring Aislinn down to his office and present the situation as a problem to be solved. One that required her involvement.

  I never expected that she would quit. Truly, I was shocked.

  Aislinn Granville wasn’t at all like her father.

  Either of them.

  In the elevator, I press my palm against a discreet panel on the back wall. The doors close, the ride becoming an express, my destination known only to me and a small but well-vetted staff.

  They open on a level below the basement. My subterranean office could double as the Hollywood set of a big budget cyber-crime movie. Two dozen desks, each topped by multiple computers, surround a large conference table. Three of the windowless walls are covered in screens. At any given time, they can display one enormous image or a hundred smaller ones. Right now, one wall shows a map of Manhattan, and the other wall is broken up into a kaleidoscope of charts, spreadsheets, photographs, and live feeds. One is blank.

  I haven’t made my money in drugs or guns or gambling, at least not directly. I took over the failing criminal enterprise of Ace Byrne—my prison cellmate—and made it my own. With a felony on my record, it wasn’t like I could go back to Wall Street.

  Believe it or not, my original intent had been altruistic. I walked out of prison intending to save those in need of saving … and ruin those in need of ruining. To right the wrongs of my past. The woman I couldn’t save. The man I didn’t kill.

  And quickly realized that my aspirations required money. Lots of it.

  So, I earned a fortune on the dark net. Coding. Cryptocurrency. Crimes so technologically advanced most laws don’t even apply.

  Technically, I can run my business anywhere. Why New York City? Besides the fact that I’ve lived here most of my life, I love the place. The grit and glamour, the income disparity between the haves and have-nots, the food and pace and attitude.

  More importantly, Manhattan is a city built on top of an extensive, and largely neglected, underground network of tunnels and subterranean passages so deep that not even the humid heat of New York City summers can penetrate them.

  My business requires two things—cool spaces and access to a power grid. Almost anywhere else, my banks of computers would produce a heat signal and electronic signature giving away my location. It takes a fuck-ton of energy to crunch billions of lines of code … but it makes me millions of dollars a year. Hundreds of millions of dollars a year. And energy is hot.

  As my business grew and my profits skyrocketed, I invested in real estate. Particularly, buildings with underground access.

  Two hundred feet below the grid of streets and avenues, I’ve built my own mini city. A criminal network that is invisible, untouchable.

  Mine.

  Sure, there are threats. Like when the Transit Authority starts talking about another subway expansion. Or when a storm blows in and underground water levels rise. Or when a nearby sewer leaks and repair teams flood the area.

  Threats from rival syndicates who have no idea that my business is primarily a front to hide what I really do. They think they can take over my cybercrime operations, earn what I’ve earned on the dark net.

  And now there is another threat, more pressing than any I’ve ever faced. To Aislinn.

  Finley, my second-in-command, looks up from one of the desks. “Have they started yet?” I ask.

  “No.” A few keystrokes make the blank screens come to life, forming one image. An empty room, dark and dirty. A man, his clothes torn and filthy, his face already bloodied. “They’re waiting on you.”

  I nod, then head down a back hallway. I wasn’t always a violent man. But … shit happens.

  Burke, my head of security, falls into step behind me. He doesn’t say anything, there’s no need. We’ve worked together for a long time, and he knows exactly what’s about to play out. I will ask questions. The man he brought to me will resist. He will lie. Eventually, he will break. They all do.

  We enter the room I was just looking at with Finley. At our presence, the man pushes himself even further into his corner.

  This interrogation doesn’t last long. They never do.

  Pain is a powerful motivator. And I know how to inflict it in the cruelest of ways.

  We speak a mix of English and Spanish, but most of his communication takes the form of begging, screaming, and unintelligible grunts and groans.

  I don’t have many questions.

  Did Cruz send you?

  What were your instructions?

  Where were you going to take her?

  Who else is involved?

  I ask them several times, in several different ways.

  I don’t need a translator. I speak Spanish as fluently as a native, along with four other languages.

  My interrogation ends as they always do—with death.

  Burke stays behind while I rejoin Finley. “How do you want to handle this?”

  How? I want to put James Granville and Chad Lytton in that room, their useless pleas for mercy echoing off the cement walls.

  I want to watch them die—before their actions can harm Aislinn.

  “Send the head to Cruz. Make sure he knows it came from me.”

  The message will be clear. All attempts to take or hurt Aislinn Granville will be avenged.

  She is under my protection.

  10

  Aislinn

  T he tray remains untouched as I toss back the last of my glass in one scorching gulp. I’ve already cycled through more appropriate actions: rattling the knob, banging on the door, yelling until I’m hoarse.

  I throw myself on the bed, face-first, and scream my frustration into the pillows. Releasing the heavy dose of fear punching through my lungs so that it doesn’t infect my mind. I have to think.

  But it does anyway. The blood rushing through my veins is hot and toxic as if it’s been laced with acid. The fear inside me won’t leave; it just gets pushed back inside my lungs like recycled air.

  Creating the perfect environment for the mold spores of my past to grow and multiply.

  A past that cannot be wiped away. Cannot be forgotten. It’s always there, just waiting for the smallest trigger. A trigger that will send me down a spiral I can’t come back from.

  I turn my head so that my mouth isn’t pressed to the duvet.

  Not again not again not again.

  It is a chant that beats inside my brain.

  An irrational one. Because this isn’t the same.

  There are differences. Significant ones. To stem the panic clawing at my scalp, I force myself to list them.

  I am not in a small, dank closet. I am in a luxurious, well-lit bedroom suite.

  Outside the locked door, there is quiet.

  No blood mars the expensive, hand-knotted rugs covering the floor.

  The maid who locked me inside, Ms. Weathersby, was calm and polite. Her eyes weren’t wild, her hand held no weapon.

  It is only my own cries that echo inside my ears.

  As for King—he might be a savage, even a monster. But, as far as I can tell, he isn’t a madman.

  Am I really in danger?

  Because if this is all just a ploy to get me in his apartment for some kind of elaborately staged booty call, why did King leave when I was barely a breath away from capitulating? With his leg between my thighs, his breath warm on my lips, his touch—

  Stop!

  There has to be a reason I’m here, a reason I’m locked inside this room. Not an acceptable reason, that’s for damn sure.

  Maybe I’d stand a chance at figuring it out if I knew something about King beyond mere rumors or hearsay.

  I sit up in the bed, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. One at a time, each breath slower and more shallow than the one before.

  “This isn’t like last time,” I say the words to myself. Repeating them again for good measure.

  For one thing—I am a grown w
oman, not a little girl. If there is a threat against me, it’s not clawing at the door.

  There is another difference, one I will make certain of.

  This time, no one will die.

  Steadying my shaking hands, I retrieve my laptop and open it with a renewed sense of purpose. As a political strategist, I cut my teeth on opposition research. I’ve never met a candidate I couldn’t dig up dirt on. Maybe I just need to turn my skills against Damon King.

  The computer powers up and I open my settings, looking for a Wi-Fi to log into that doesn’t require a password.

  Except that there aren’t any. None.

  Fine. My laptop won’t work, but at least I have my—

  Damn it. Where is my purse? I had it with me earlier. After being subjected to another heaping dose of King’s arrogance, had I left it in the living room?

  Panic escalates. I need my phone. I can’t be out of touch.

  Not because of my father. Or Chad. They both deserve to worry whether that recording will get leaked. Part of me almost wants it to surface.

  But that’s not why I race around the room, looking under the bed and on the desk. In every corner.

  I can’t be out of touch because of a promise I made. A commitment. Not to any one person, but to an organization. There are lives at stake.

  My purse is nowhere to be seen.

  Finally, with my nerves practically jumping out of my skin, I pull out the desk chair to sit—and there it is. I must have set it down without paying attention. My hands shake as I extract my phone from the zippered exterior pocket.

  Not that it matters.

  There are no little bars on the top left of my screen … just two words. No Service.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  I feel the muscles in my throat constrict, my airway narrowing.

  I’m not locked inside a dark closet, but I might as well be.

  I am locked away from the world.

  Spots shimmer at the edges of my vision but I fight their pull. I can’t give in to my fears. I won’t.

  And I won’t give in to the man ultimately responsible, either.

  Damon King.

  He may rule over his criminal fiefdom, but he will not rule me.

  My temporary tequila buzz is long gone, eaten away by terror. Now, anger erodes that.

  Better than fear or panic, anger is bracing and solid. I grab onto it with both hands.

  First step—study my environment.

  This room is clearly some sort of impersonal guest bedroom, so I don’t expect to glean any information about King from it. The walls, furniture, and fabrics are all neutral, various shades of gray and white and beige. The en suite bathroom follows the same color scheme and is nearly as big as the bedroom. Any other time, I would have drawn a bath in the white porcelain soaking tub, along with a generous pour of bubble bath, lit the candles, and let the water ease my tense muscl—

  Candles. Nearly a dozen of them arranged around the tub.

  If there are candles, there have to be matches. Right?

  Maybe I can send a smoke signal. The thought is sarcastic, but the impetus is all too real. I have to do something.

  Inside the bathroom, I’m briefly distracted by the realization that the toiletries are all brands I use. From the shampoo and conditioner and body wash in the shower, to the bottle of mouthwash below the sink. All of them brand-new, like someone had taken a detailed inventory of my bathroom and made a pit stop at CVS and Sephora.

  Focus, Aislinn. Matches.

  I find them in a drawer of the vanity, beside an unopened toothbrush and my favorite brand of toothpaste.

  Next step, open a window.

  There’s no balcony, not even a ledge. But if I can just open a window, I’ll dangle a flaming T-shirt outside. Surely, in a city of eight million, someone will notice it.

  Except, there’s no latch. No lever. No way to crack the glass even an inch.

  Damn it.

  Another idea takes hold. A whisper of a thought, really.

  But first—I have to be sure there are smoke detectors.

  Heading back into the bedroom, I quickly spot the telltale panel set into one of the walls. It has measurements for everything: temperature, carbon monoxide, humidity. The bastard probably has a camera planted somewhere, too.

  Motherfucker.

  I was angry before, but now it is a distilled fury that rushes through my veins, thicker and hotter with every beat of my heart.

  Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath and position myself in front of the locked door. “This is your last chance; do you hear me? Let me out or you’re not going to like what happens next.”

  But if I expected to hear footsteps pounding on the floor outside my room, followed by the metallic slide of the door unlocking, I am wrong. All is quiet, the windows too thick for even the sound of Manhattan traffic to penetrate. It is eerie.

  I sit on the bed and pick up one of the books from the nightstand. And, although the sound of tearing pages abrades my eardrums like sandpaper on silk, I rip it to shreds, balling up each page and tossing it in the middle of the mattress. I do the same to the second book. And then the third.

  When my books are merely a pile of kindling in the center of the mattress, I look at the door one last time. I wish I had a bottle of liquor in my room. Not to use as an accelerant, but to calm my nerves. Because what I’m about to do is just plain stupid.

  Who starts a fire in a locked room?

  A person who will do anything to escape from it.

  There might be a smoke sensor, but I don’t see a sprinkler system. What if no one unlocks the door? What if the fire spreads and the alarm doesn’t sound? What if I burn to death?

  I can see my epitaph. Here lies the woman who built her own pyre.

  Or, even worse, what if I’m burned … and live? I’ve seen that episode of Law & Order, heard the screams of the would-be criminal in the burn unit, watched as the cops decide there is no greater punishment than being treated for third-degree burns.

  The matches in my hand shake as I consider lighting the bathroom candles, taking a bath, and going to bed. Tomorrow is a new day. I can get a good night’s sleep and do battle with King in the morning.

  But … what if I remain locked up tomorrow? And the next day and the one after that? What if he’s done nothing about the recording and it was all just a ruse? What if King plans to keep me here, isolated and alone?

  This is my only chance. Because, surely, he will see what I’ve done to the books. Maybe he is even watching the box of matches in my hand right now.

  So I open the little cardboard drawer and take out a match, not hesitating as I close the drawer and drag the head over the abrasive strip.

  The tip bursts into flame, and for a moment I merely hold it above the bed, looking back over my shoulder at the door.

  Please don’t make me do this.

  I can feel the heat of the flame as it dances along the stick, getting closer and closer to my fingers. So close. And yet still there is no shouted Stop!

  There is only the frantic thud of my heartbeat ringing inside my ears.

  The flame licks at my fingernail and I let it fall. Hoping it will blow out before it hits the paper.

  It doesn’t.

  11

  Damon

  I ’ve seen a lot of crazy shit in my life, but what I’m watching right now… It’s at the top of a very long list.

  After the interrogation I had shut myself in my office, needing to think about how best to handle the situation. Keeping Aislinn in my apartment forever isn’t an option. I’d been pacing, mentally sorting through several possible solutions, all of which ended with Lytton’s body tossed in the river, buried below ground, or cut into pieces and left for animals to desecrate. He is expendable.

  Granville could stay in office, albeit wearing a muzzle. The evil I know is better than the evil I don’t.

  Like the main room of the underground bunker I’ve set up for my business
, three walls of my office are also covered in screens. I’m a visual person, and my business has a lot of moving pieces. It is important—vital—that I know what is going on at any given time. I have a solid team around me, but all it takes is one person, one fuckup, to burn the whole thing to the ground.

  Madoff—one investigative accountant.

  Enron—one equity analyst.

  The Gambino crime family—one snitch.

  I see the flames just as my door is thrown open. “Boss, we have a problem.”

  Yeah. A problem with the face of an angel and the body of a bombshell.

  And, apparently, the brain of a goddamn arsonist.

  If Aislinn is trying to send me a message, she’s about to find out that unlike in her world, where she is the adored only child of two doting parents and her tantrums are soothed by whatever means necessary—this kind of outburst won’t earn her anything but a well-deserved spanking. Act like a child and I will treat you like one.

  “Team two is outside her door, they can unlock it and—”

  “No. When that door opens, I’ll be the first thing she sees.” Muttering a stream of curses under my breath, I jog to the elevator bank. One of my guys is already there holding the door open. He has a fire extinguisher in his hands, although the men of Team Two better have their own.

  As for Aislinn—she’s obviously going to be the death of me.

  By the time I get to the hallway, the alarm is shrieking, smoke a gray whisper drifting from beneath her door. “Open it,” I command, expecting to see Aislinn standing defiantly in the middle of the room, the fire in her eyes burning as brightly as the one atop the bed.

  But she isn’t.

  My men race into the empty room, their extinguishers making quick work of the blaze. Aislinn must not know that all mattresses are required to be flame retardant because it is mostly confined to the bedding and paper and clothes heaped on it. But there are already dark spots on the headboard, wall, and the ceiling above. The lampshades on either side of the bed have partially melted, too.

  I turn in a circle, my gaze bouncing everywhere at once. The room itself is thick with smoke, although not nearly thick enough to hide a body. One of my guys enters a code into the wall panel and the alarm cuts off.